Let Me Get Your Cape
by casteroid
Summary: Sam Evans always wanted to be a superhero...Mercedes Jones? Not so much. AU.
1. Prolouge

"So," Mercedes began, wincing as she popped her shoulder back into its socket, "are you going to arrest me?"

The officer sitting across from her in interview room one cringed as Mercedes cracked the bones in her right forearm, banging it repeatedly against the dull metal desk that separated them.

"Will you _stop that_?" He grimaced.

Smirking, Mercedes pushed her right arm off of the table, letting it swing at her side, before using her left hand to grab her right wrist and place it in her lap.

"Sorry." She sighed, "it's just that, the bones grow back stronger if they're broken completely and not just fractured." She paused, biting her lip to keep from laughing at the officer who was swallowing the urge to gag. "I keep forgetting that some people find rapid regeneration disgusting."

The room they were sitting in was cold, frigid even. But Mercedes relished the icy air that hit her skin, and the cool metal chair that soothed the aching muscles in her legs.

The walls were painted a deep periwinkle blue, the door outlined with a thick pin-striping of white. Across from Mercedes and directly behind the officer was a wall-to-wall two-way mirror, that Mercedes was both amused by and terrified of. Amused because she knew that half—maybe even all—of the on duty detectives were sitting behind it gawking at her and terrified because with the mirror, she could clearly see just how much damage that last fight had done her.

Mercedes leaned back, raising her left hand to brush strands of hair from her face, lingering a moment too long on the diagonal gash that ran from her forehead to her temple. She pressed her finger against the wound, rolling her eyes, and turned back to the officer. "Can I at least get some peroxide? I don't think it's legal for you to keep me here while hurt."

The officer sat straighter, the corners of his mouth turning up into a snarl. "_Heal yourself_, Miss Jones."

Although, if he was being truthful, he couldn't see how she could possibly do that—even if she had her so called superpowers. Because when Mercedes Jones walked into the precinct, rather when she was escorted in with thick chains locking her ankles to her one good wrist, she looked like she had been hit by a bulldozer. Repeatedly.

Her hair curled loosely and laid limp around her face, stiff from the drying mud that coated it. It fell raggedly past her shoulders, her ends frayed and smoldering—as if it had previously been on fire. The gash that curved around her left eye wasn't too deep, but it looked nasty. The skin that was broken giving way to a steady stream of blood that rolled down her cheek and settled into the hair that matted her face. There was a bruise under her right eye, turning a shade of royal purple as it ripened. The thin, dark gray hoodie she wore was completely torn down the middle, exposing a form-fitting, low cut, red tank top and effectively turning her hoodie into a long, button-less jacket. With each step she took, her right arm would swing, haphazardly, at her side. It stuck out, her shoulder was dislocated, her forearm was twisted in the wrong direction, her fingers paralyzed into the makings of a fist. The skin along her knuckles were rubbed raw, like she had been ramming them into cement. Her nails were ragged, the one on her pinky bleeding from the place where it had been almost completely ripped off. Mercedes' legs managed better than her upper body did, the leggings she wore were torn but only in a few places around her ankles. She could feel a large bruise running from her thigh to her knee, the skin was tender, a jolt of pain shooting up her aching spine every time an officer forced her to keep moving. The only part of her body that seemed to come out okay were her lips, they were chapped to be sure, but they weren't swollen, bleeding or gone altogether.

Narrowing her eyes at the officer, Mercedes sucked her lips in before nodding. "Contrary to what you may believe Officer..."

"Schuester," the officer provided.

"Well, Officer Schuester, contrary to what you may believe it takes a lot more than an idiot telling me to_heal myself _for me to actually do it." She caught him scowling at her and jerked forward, causing him to jump. "When my boyfriend gets here," she whispered so that the officers standing on the other side of the wall length mirror couldn't hear, "you're going to be in big trouble."

Officer Schuester looked at her, his eyes grazing the shallow cuts littered across Mercedes' cheeks and laughed. "Miss Jones," he said bringing his gaze back up to meet hers, "I thought you were in the business of justice. Now correct me if I'm wrong but doesn't that include respecting the law—and those who enforce it?"

This time Mercedes laughed, "Officer Schuester, if I'm being frank... I don't give two shits about the _law_or you."

"Well in that case, I won't give you the benefit of the doubt." He reached underneath the table and grabbed a briefcase, slamming it onto the tabletop with extra force. Wiggling his eyebrows at Mercedes, he snapped open the bag, pulling out a thick stack of manilla folders. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, slapping the folders in front of her.

Mercedes squinted at them for a second before shrugging, "I don't have x-ray vision."

Officer Schuester pursed his lips, he was getting sick of the attitude his suspect was giving him. How dare she smirk at him when her ankles were chained and bolted to the floor? How dare she roll her eyes when the precinct had two sharpshooters training their guns on her forehead through the one way mirror she kept winking towards? How dare she still have a sense of humor when she was most likely going to jail for the rest of her life?

Biting back a groan, he spread out the folders, flipping each one open and turning them so that Mercedes could read them right side up.

"This," he spat, pointing to the first folder, "is a list of all the people who've ended up in the hospital because of you—"

"_Because of_?" Mercedes cut in, her eyebrows shooting up, the corners of her mouth twitching downwards. Her left shoulder stiffened and she pulled her head back, craning it to the right, "if you do a little more research you'll find that the only plausible alternative to the hospital was much, much colder and..._six feet under the ground_."

Officer Schuester cocked an eyebrow at her. "Miss Jones," he began, excited that he had managed to get under her skin, "you may think that you served those citizens well—that you saved them. But I'd like to remind you that none of that would've been necessary had it not been for the prior commotion _you_caused."

Before Mercedes could respond, Officer Schuester slammed his palm onto the next folder. "This is a list of all the damage you and your boyfriend managed to rack up in the past couple of months. Do you know how much money you've cost the city?"

Mercedes licked her lips, "a dollar?"

The officer leaned back into his seat and folded his arms over his chest, "try twenty-five _million_...dollars that is."

At that Mercedes stalled, her bottom lip jutting forward as she sighed. "I can fix it."

"You mean to tell me," the officer laughed, "that you can fill in the crater that now occupies Jackson Elementary's playground? You can unflip the moving truck that caused the 32-car pile up on highway 43? You can rebuild the Hotel Ritz? Complete with its rooftop hot tub?"

Mercedes furrowed her eyebrows against the smug look on Officer Schuester's face and sniffed.

"Yeah."

"Please enlighten me, Miss Jones. How do you plan to _pay_for all of that?"

"Well," Mercedes flicked her hair backwards propping her good arm on the table and resting her chin against it, "we can start by implementing some very necessary budget cuts for the city. Getting rid of some unneeded programs, some excessive luxuries and some... incompetent police officers."

Officer Schuester put a hand to his heart. "Oh you really do care about the people," he said looking her up and down, "by the way, those ankle bracelets aren't hurting you are they? They have a tendency to chafe."

Mercedes looked at him, a smile playing on her lips. "They're fine."

The officer smiled back, linking his eyes with Mercedes', then shoved the next folder towards her. "This is a list of all the complaints lodged against you by various citizens over the past couple of weeks. I think you'll find that not everyone is a fan of your...heroics."

"Well I can't please the whole damn city—"

"This is the list of known criminals you've maimed and/or endangered—"

"It's a good start right—"

"This is the list of the first aid you lifted from every hospital in the tricounty area—"

"Like I said it takes a lot of work to heal bones—"

"Now you listen here!" Officer Schuester snapped, banging his fist against the table.

"I'm here to make sure you know _exactly_why you're going to rot in jail." He smirked at the look that Mercedes gave him. Jabbing his index finger in her face, he pushed back his seat and leaned over the table. "I'm not here to indulge in your little superhero fantasy or reward you with an honorary police badge! I'm not here to understand where you come from, or your perspective—"

"But I am."

Mercedes and the officer both looked up, the latter cringing as the door to the interview room slammed open. It banged against an adjacent wall, shooting back in the direction it came from, narrowly clipping the woman who glided through it, and circled the officer. Her long black hair, which was up in a tight ponytail, bounced as she strutted to Mercedes' side, her bronze colored eyes, steely and unmoving from the officer's face. The black on black three piece suit that hugged her body tightly, was pressed and_so_crisp that the officer actually wondered if she had the power to slit throats with her cuff links.

She dropped the black bag she was carrying to the ground, pulling out a chair next to Mercedes. It scraped against the floor and she scoffed as Officer Schuester winced, again.

The woman turned to Mercedes and stuck her hand out, "Santana Lopez. I'll be your lawyer, Mercedes." Mercedes nodded at the woman, who shrugged when she found that she couldn't bring her right hand to grip Santana Lopez's left. Ms. Lopez took a sweeping glance of Mercedes and furrowed her eyebrows at the sight of Mercedes' arm sitting limp in her lap.

"This right here is _exactly_why none of this interview will be permissible in court." Santana gestured to Mercedes,"my client is hurt, have you even offered her medical attention? Let alone questioning her without representation present." She leaned over to rifle in her bag, revealing a yellow legal pad and a pen. "Has she even been read her Miranda Rights?"

"I assure you Ms. Lopez, everything I've done has been up to code. Completely."

"Mercedes," Ms. Lopez spoke, ignoring Officer Schuester, "we need to get you to a hospital."

Mercedes stiffened for a moment then shuffled around to face Ms. Lopez with her entire body, "Ah, no." She shook her head, plastering on a blistering smile that made the apples of her cheeks puff up.

"Ms. Lopez, I need to stay here. Um—and I—I can heal myself you know."

"Are you serious," Ms. Lopez huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

Mercedes nodded furiously, her hair bobbing around her. " Yeah! Yeah, Officer Schuester wants to arraign me, something about the, uh, the Hotel Ritz I destroyed. I can't let him think all those things about me without knowing the whole story."

Ms. Lopez rolled her eyes, "who cares what he thinks?"

Officer Schuester perked up, "actually a lot of people. People who've made it impossible for Miss Jones to leave the precinct without first posting bail."

"Post bail?! What exactly have you charged her of?"

The officer waved a hand regally over the manilla folders, and sheets of white paper that littered the table top. Ms. Lopez scooped up a handful and scanned them over, throwing dirty glances at Mercedes every couple of seconds.

"Okay," she instructed, "Mercedes why don't you explain what happened?"

"Yes Miss Jones," Officer Schuester agreed, "tell us everything."

Mercedes cleared her throat. "It's actually a long story."

"Don't worry, you've got the time."

Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Okay. Ms. Lopez, Officer Schuester," she began looking between the two of them.

She paused for a moment and winced, biting down on her bottom lip. Mercedes held up the index finger of her left hand for a moment before arching her back to stretch, and rotating her left shoulder in its socket. She paused again and squinted at the officer before looking at her right arm. Sucking in a sharp breath, she jerked her right arm upwards, rotated her shoulder in it's socket, and turned her forearm in a tight circle. Mercedes heard Ms. Lopez let out a low whistle as she brought both of her arms up and rested her elbows against the table. She laced her fingers together and leaned forward, settling her chin against her hands. Mercedes smiled again.

"Let me start from the beginning."

* * *

**A/N: So now that you know where Mercedes is and what she can do, we're going to travel back to the beginning to find out just how she got that way. Please forgive any typos and grammatical errors. I did edit but I'm not perfect and I'm bound to miss something.**

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.


	2. Chemical X Comics

-13 Months Earlier-

Sam Evans squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing circles into his temples as his best friend—and business partner—Mike Chang went over that morning's itinerary.

"Okay," the tall, dark haired man stated as he flipped through pages of a notebook, "Volume XX of Cyborg 009 was shipped two days ago. We've got three packages of it in the back that we need to put on display. The old copies of Teen Titans that we can't seem to sell need to be boxed up and shipped to the Allen Landers Library. We've got to come up with an ad design for the new comic book club that starts here next week and just in case you didn't already notice...she's back."

Sam rolled his eyes at Mike. "No, no," he reassured, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair, "I noticed. I can't _not_notice."

The two men sighed and turned their attention towards the front of the comic book store they worked in. Through the wall length window, they watched a small black woman with a guitar case walk up. They stood in silence as she opened the case, brought out a dark green guitar, propped it up against the building and sat the guitar case on the ground. She straightened up, her back to them, and shook her head, letting silky, black curls sway side to side. The woman then stretched, throwing her arms out to her sides, and reaching high above her head, faltering for a moment as she stood up on her toes.

"She's in costume today." Mike mused from behind a stack of Suicide Squad posters.

Sam squinted at her, his shoulders sagging. Mike was right. Because, as the woman turned, he saw the billowing cerulean blue skirt she wore twirl, and reveal a series of white stars scattered across the front paneling as if they were falling through the sky. He saw the strapless red top she wore, running snugly across her curves and tucked, tightly, into her skirt. The golden emblem of a bird was sewn to the top of her shirt, and skimmed across her breasts. He saw two chunky gold bracelets slide up and down her wrists. She turned to the left, bending lower to adjust the position of her guitar case, and Sam noticed her head band. It was also gold, with a single red star sitting in the middle. Sam rubbed a hand over his face and groaned.

Today, she was Wonder Woman.

"That girl," Sam said, walking over to the register and forcing it open, "does not play fair."

Mike followed him, ticking items off the to-do list he was holding. "I know but dude," he noted, "we should have seen this coming."

For the past couple of weeks, the mystery minstrel would arrive at Chemical X Comics, set up a makeshift stage for herself, and play hours of acoustic covers on her guitar. At first she was subtle, standing across the street, playing the theme to Spiderman, forcing her victims into unsuspecting submission with the sparkling smile she gave them. But, after a few sessions she seemed to step up her game. She expanded her repertoire, flipped her wardrobe and moved her stage right in front of Sam and Mike's store.

Well, technically, Chemical X Comics belonged to Mike's father. Michael Chang, Sr. was a rich, enigmatic man who showed his affection through ridiculously lavish and inappropriate gifts. The comic book store was a present for Mike's high school graduation. Three days after Sam and Mike moved from Tennessee to Los Angeles for their first year of college, Mike received a package in the mail. Inside the package was an address, two sets of keys and a limited edition copy of Brainiac 5's origin issue. Thinking his father had just sent him on a scavenger hunt, Mike dropped everything and navigated his way through the city to a small store a few blocks away from his UCLA dorm room.

The store was nestled in between a coffee place—that went belly up half a year later—and a construction site that seemed to have been abandoned many years prior to Mike's arrival. It had a red, white and blue color scheme and a marquee plastered to the window on the far right that read, 'Chemical X Comics.' When Mike realized that the keys he held were to Chemical X's front door, he felt an inkling of something close to—but not exactly—panic wash over him. No later had he unlocked the front door, did he receive a text message from his father.

_Michael_, the text read, _I am giving you the opportunity to prove yourself to the business world. I've bought this comics store with the intention of giving you real world experience. I've remembered your interest in comic books so I've combined it with your soon-to-be business major. Don't run it into the ground._ MC, Sr.

Mike didn't know whether to laugh at the idea of owning a comic book store at the age of nineteen or cry at the fact that his father had mistaken his best friend's interest in comics as his own.

Nevertheless, and always one to show up his old man's expectations, Mike undertook the endeavor. He enlisted the help of Sam—the only one of the two who actually knew comics—and a few friends he'd met in UCLA's business club. Together, Mike and Sam managed to, not only keep from running Chemical X to the ground, but create a mildly profitable business that looked good on both of their resumes.

Their good fortune, however, tapered off four years later when the two found that Chemical X Comics wasn't selling like it used to.

"Mike," Sam groaned whilst switching out the cash registers, "I need a drink...preferably on the rocks."

Mike chuckled and patted his friend on the back before walking to the new releases section of the store. He disappeared from Sam's view then shouted, "I don't think that's a good idea, buddy!"

Sam frowned. "Why not? I'm 24 years old, I'm an adult and I can handle my alcohol!"

Mike's head popped up from behind a cardboard cut out of the Batman. He squinted in Sam's direction and made a face at him, "well right now, your acting like a kid and it's only...nine in the morning."

"Oh," Sam said, blanching, "I forgot about that."

Mike put down his checklist and walked over to the registers, stopping at the counter and leaning over it. "Okay, spill it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Dude, I've known you long enough to know when you're lying...and add that to the fact that you're a shit liar..."

Sam finished counting down the drawer and closed the register. He looked up at Mike who raised his eyebrows. "It's just been a terrible couple of days, okay?"

Mike tilted his head to the left. "Is this about the pay cut? Because if it is Sam, I told you the X will be back to running at 100% in no time. All we've got to do is up our advertising game and—"

"It's not about the X." Sam cut in. He sighed, "well, it's not _only_ about the X."

Sam grabbed a few comic book posters from the stack that sat behind the counter and a roll of tape. He crossed over to the middle of the store, and began to tape a poster of five superheroes clad in orange jumpsuits to the wall next to the upcoming releases section.

He could feel Mike's eyes following him and he knew that his best friend meant well, but what he was about to admit was just a tad bit embarrassing.

"I blew another audition."

Sam heard Mike sigh. "That sucks, man. What happened?"

" He just... couldn't keep his big mouth shut."

"...you didn't get into a fight did you?"

Sam glanced back at Mike before taping another poster to the wall.

"Sam, are you serious? Another one? You are going to ruin your reputation! No one's gonna want to work with the perpetually pissed off male model."

"I know—I know! It's just that fucking bushy headed hobbit kept baiting me! I—I lost my cool. And then I lost the job."

Sam groaned, this wouldn't be the first time that his temper cost him a gig. Most times, he was a charming, laid back, happy-go-lucky fella who could be bought with good food and anything that started with the words _collector's edition_. But lately, he'd become more moody, more brooding, and always on edge.

He attributed this to his parent's recent financial struggles. Dwight Evans, Sam's father, had become a casualty of a corporate coup. He lost his job when the architecture business he worked for was absorbed by an executive poacher. With the family's main source of income gone, Mary Evans—Sam's mother—had taken it upon herself to fill in the gaps. Working two jobs, and more than 70 hours a week, reduced her to nothing more than skin and bones. When Sam went home for winter break, he found that his parents could no longer afford the home they lived in, his mother wasn't sleeping and his fourteen year old brother and sister were skipping school, desperate to find odd jobs around the city.

Sam got creative, using the one thing he knew he'd always be good for—his body. He had been striping for only a month when a bald man, with a penchant for pastel sweaters and showtunes, stopped him in his tracks one night.

"You are much too good for that stage," the man had said, raking his eyes over Sam's glistening gold shorts.

Bringing his hands up to cover himself, Sam pulled a face. "Thank...you?"

The man smiled and pulled out his wallet, "no I meant it."

Sam plastered on an identical smile and held out his hand, expecting a tip. What he got was a pale, lime green business card with the words 'SANDY' embossed on the front in gold letters and an address scrawled on the back.

"Meet me at this place tomorrow at noon and I promise...I'll change your life."

Sam only thought about it for a moment. He had pride, but he also had an amazing amount of guilt building up in the pit of his stomach. If house calls would bring in extra cash, he'd have to consider it.

When he got to the address the next day, he didn't find a sketchy apartment belonging to the bald lecher. He found a studio, miles of Armani's 2012 Spring Line and a legion of tall, muscular and half naked men.

The mystery man was right, that day had changed Sam's life. He became a model. One who—in a really good month—could pull $6,000 worth of gigs. One who could finally pass as a member of Mike Chang's _actual_ social circle. One who didn't have to stand by and watch his father work himself to the bone or hear about his mother crying herself to sleep. Life was good.

Until two months ago, when Chemical X Comics came up red. Suddenly, Sam needed the money he made from his modeling gigs to support himself and his school loans. Suddenly, the checks his parents received in the mail got smaller—if they bothered to show up at all. He groaned at the grim realization, good-for-nothing Sam was back in business.

"Whatever you're thinking isn't true," Mike said, waving a hand in front of Sam's face and bringing him back to the present, "so you'd better stop thinking it."

Sam gave Mike a grateful smile before turning to the front of the store. "Yeah, I know. I'm—we're gonna get through this. Everything will be—shit!"

Sam dropped the remaining stack of posters he was holding and pointed towards the door. He whipped his head around to find Mike.

"Is that...is that your dad?"

* * *

Usually, Mercedes relished life in the spotlight. But, she admitted to herself as she strummed yet another wrong chord, there were somethings even she couldn't handle. Her gaze flicked back to the tall, older Asian man who was staring at her as if he

could light her on fire with the blink of an eye. She gulped before she could realize it. What was he doing? What did he want? It wasn't that the situation she was in was entirely new to her—she used to gather pretty intense crowds with her roommate—but, she bit her lip as she missed another cue, she'd never felt so nervous street performing before. The man in front of her had easily and curtly scared away all of her potential clients in mere minutes, his eyes slicing through any awkwardness and replacing it with tension. He circled her, frowning when she stopped playing, and folded his arms over his chest in what Mercedes could only assume to be silent judgment.

Mercedes adjusted the position of her guitar, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Look—"

Mercedes stalled and when she opened her eyes she found the older Asian man being dragged into the comics store by one of the workers who Mercedes recognized.

_What was his name?_ She thought to herself, _Mitch? Matt? Mahogany? _

Her thoughts were interrupted when the younger Asian man looked back at her from a spot just beyond the front doors.

"Usually, I don't mind letting you perform here," he said throwing a hasty glance at his blond friend who was trying to duck behind the registers, "but just this once...can you please not?"

Mercedes was still trying to wrap her head around the whole situation, "w-what—"

"Just please leave," the man raised a hand, motioning for her to go and giving her what looked to be a rushed and apologetic glance. He didn't even wait for her to respond this time and turned back into his store.

Mercedes watched him raise his hands in the air, point them towards the door and shrug. Then she saw the older man squint, unfold one of his crossed arms and point ...at her. This had happened once before, Mercedes recalled, removing her guitar from around her shoulders and laying it on top of the small pile of cash that occupied her case. And, she remembered, it didn't end all too well.

Mercedes closed her guitar case. It snapped shut and she grabbed the handle, looking back into the store just as the older man pointed at her, again. The younger man—who wasn't hiding behind the registers—looked up exasperatedly before jogging towards the door. Mercedes backed away slowly, then turned on heel with the intention of running. She had gotten four—maybe five—feet away when she heard someone calling out to her.

"Hey!" The voice yelled, "Wonder Woman!"

At that Mercedes stopped and gulped, they really weren't going to report her for loitering were they?

She turned around to find the same guy from before. He stood about a head taller than her, with a broad chest, chiseled arms that could be seen clearly in the red polo he wore and Mercedes blamed her blatant perusal of his body on the fact that her eye level was aimed directly at his chest.

"Okay this is going to seem weird," he began pulling Mercedes back to reality, "but uh, my Dad...wants to talk to you."

Mercedes furrowed her eyebrows while bringing her eyes up to meet his. "Your Dad?"

He gestured to the older man inside the store who fixed Mercedes with a stone cold stare.

"Yeah, uh, he owns the X. Chang, Sr. Uh, Michael Chang, Sr. That's him. Er, I'm also Michael Chang, but since that'd be a little confusing, you can call me Mike. Mike Chang... Junior."

Mike stuck out his hand and Mercedes took it. The fact that Mike seemed to be babbling didn't escape her. It made her more nervous. If this man's own son was afraid of him, what did that mean for her?

Before she knew it, Mike Chang, Jr was leading her into the Chemical X Comics. A cool breeze hit Mercedes' cheeks and she relished it as a nice change from the heat outside. The calmness that washed over her was short lived because, as soon as she came within walking distance, Mr. Chang, Sr dived in.

"Who are you?" He asked, clutching his folded arms closer to his body.

"Uh—uh," Mercedes stammered. Truly forgetting the answer to his question for a second, she turned to Mike whose eyebrows were dancing up and down. Sensing her nervousness, he squeezed her hand and they both realized a moment later that he was still holding her hand.

"Mercedes Jones," she managed to get out.

And then Mr. Chang, Sr. scoffed. At least Mercedes thought it was a scoff. It could've been a cough _but_, she reasoned, the prim and pressed man in front of her didn't seem like one to cough. But then why a scoff? Was her name funny? Was it beneath him? Was he taking note on who to report to the police? Do the police put people in jail for loitering?

Mercedes glanced back at the door. Could she try just... ducking out? With two—three if she counted the blond who was grimacing in her general direction—sets of eyes on her? It was a stretch, being bogged down by her guitar and all, but Mercedes had always prided herself on being able to rise above limitations—

"Miss Jones," Mr. Chang cut across Mercedes' thoughts, "I'm a very busy man. So when I give you the time of day, just know that that time is precious."

Mercedes was in the middle of making a face when she felt a dull pain shoot up her hand. She looked over to see Mike Jr furrowing his eyebrows at her. He squeezed her hand again and she took the opportunity to pull it away. Regaining her composure, Mercedes turned back to Mr. Chang.

"Yes, sir." She bit off the ends of her reply but still managed to smile.

Mr. Chang ignored it. "What do you do?"

"Uh, what do you mean?"

When she saw the corners of his mouth turn down, Mercedes cleared her throat. "I'm a singer, I sing...for a living."

"Professionally?"

"...yes?"

Mr. Chang paused. "What are you wearing?"

Mercedes took a yoga breath. Then, before anyone could protest, she disappeared into a rack of comics to her left. Moments later she reemerged, carrying an issue of Wonder Woman.

"See," she said holding up the comic, "when I perform in front of this store, I find that the crowd is more responsive if I'm more...involved. I can make a quick buck just with my voice, but the customers get more excited if I can show them something different. Something that they can marvel at. Like Wonder Woman playing the insert theme to Final Fantasy X-2."

Mr. Chang was silent for a pregnant second, then he nodded. "That's what I thought."

He looked at Mike. "Michael, Samuel," he said craning his neck around to catch the blond trying to sneak into the breakroom, "you could learn a thing or two from this young lady."

Mercedes tried to not to laugh when she heard Mike almost choke beside her.

"E-excuse me?" He said, looking incredulously between the two, "learn _what_ from her?"

Mr. Chang fixed Mike with an impatient glare, "how to sell, Michael. How to sell. If you knew anything about it then I wouldn't have to shovel unnecessary funds into this place."

Mike wrung his hands and Mercedes surprised the both of them by placing one of hers over his. When he looked at her, she smiled sympathetically.

"Well, actually sir," Mercedes said, "they do have a pretty loyal bunch of customers. The problem is that they don't seem to attract _new_ customers. Just the same people who don't really buy anything."

Mike's eyebrows shot up, _how would you know?_

Mr. Chang blinked, "what else?"

"Well," Mercedes was on a roll now, "they have a really cool lending arrangement with the local library but, they don't advertise it. If people knew that they were donating comics I'm sure they'd get more business. Good will sales and all."

Mercedes channeled her roommates knack for business. "And you know, the store is, like, within walking distance of UCLA which means that if you can get a coffee maker in here, then you can double the amount of people who'd be willing to stop by. Then you can start a...a comic book club, where people can come and discuss the latest issue and maybe swap collectibles with someone else and you could charge a monthly membership fee." Mercedes waved to the racks of comics and the poster lined walls, "I'm sure people would pay up—for the ambiance."

Mr. Chang just looked at her, then he nodded. Then he made his way to the door. "Michael," he said once he stood in front of his son, "I trust you'll show Miss Jones here the basic functions of the store—how sales and the register work. You still have that employee manual don't you?"

Mike nodded absentmindedly, "Yes, Dad...wait what?"

"When I said that you could learn a thing or two from her I meant it. Anyone who can steal customers from you is someone you want to absorb as quick as possible."

Mercedes felt her cheeks flush. So he knew.

Mercedes cleared her throat. "Um, sir, what exactly does that mean?"

Mercedes watched as Michael Chang,Sr brought out a black phone. He typed in three digits and a black on black Lexus sped to the front of the store. Mr. Chang pushed the front doors open and stepped through.

"Why Miss Jones," he said, not even bothering to look back at her, "it means, you're hired."

Mercedes turned to give Mike a confused face. When she did, she saw that he was looking past her. She followed his gaze and met the, presumably mute, blond frowning at her. And, as Mr. Chang drove away, the blond finally spoke.

"What the hell?"

* * *

**A/N: Okay so under unique circumstances, Sam, Mercedes and Mike now work together. And although Mike's not too pleased with that, Sam seems to be pissed. Once again, I apologize for any typos or errors I might've missed. And I'm also aware that the level of suspense has gone down since the last chapter but the buildup should be worth it (fingers crossed). Thank you for the review!  
**

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of it's characters.


	3. Orientating

**A/N: This chapter is LONG. Do whatever you need to do to get through it.**

* * *

"You mean to tell me," Noah Puckerman said, biting into a slice of pepperoni and pineapple pizza, "that not only did you make $200 panhandling in front of that comic book store but they offered you a job?"

Mercedes came out of her room, after changing into a pair of baggy gray sweats and a muscle tee, squealing. "Can you believe it?"

She crossed into the kitchen, pulled out two canned sodas and walked to the small living room in the apartment she shared with her best friend, Puck.

"I was acting like I wrote the book on advertising...I even threw in the term 'goodwill sales!' You would've been so proud."

Mercedes looked off to the side, remembering the long nights she spent up with her friend going over pages and pages of terminology for the business class he took.

"But," Puck laughed, taking the cans out of her hands, "I thought you wanted to focus on getting signed?"

Mercedes tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before plopping down on the sofa beside Puck. She picked up a slice of pizza from the box that sat on the coffee table in front of them, frowned at it for a moment, then began to pick off the pineapple chunks.

"I know, I know," she admitted, "I'm still 200% committed to getting a record deal but this is a steady job. And with a steady job I could...help out more."

Puck paused, his arm outstretched towards the pizza box, and squinted at her. "Dude, we talked about this. One, you've got a lot on your plate, two, you've got a job and three, you're doing enough already. You get groceries and toiletries and I get rent remember?"

Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Yeah I remember. And I know I make some cash singing at open mics but this job at Chemical X is stea-dy," she punctuated the word with a flick of her wrist, "with a stea-dy paycheck."

Leaning back into the red sleeper sofa, Mercedes shrugged.

"It's... not exactly fair for me to let you pay for... everything."

Puck gave her a sideways glance and frowned. It was no secret that since the two friends had moved to Los Angeles the summer after their high school graduation, Puck—the more successful of the two—had been providing for the both of them. His pool cleaning business, while just a tad sketchy on paper, flourished when introduced to environment. Within a year of his first client, Puck had gathered a handful of workers—aspiring models and actors—and a long list of loyal customers. When he could afford it, he enrolled in some business courses to find better ways to sell and advertise his product. He learned how to get away with charging his customers more, what word-of-mouth PR was, and that he could pass packets of powdered lemonade and glass pitchers off as business expenses. He thrived in the LA jungle.

Mercedes on the hand, was having trouble keeping up. When she first came to LA, she had a record deal with an indie label that promised her big things. When the indie label came under financial troubles the executive she reported to had the decency to tell her to get out while she still could. The news was disheartening, but Mercedes knew how to land on her feet. She started singing at open mics and karaoke bars around town. She made a name for herself in the night scene, a handful of those establishments so impressed by the crowd she pulled that they hired her for weekly performances. Mercedes was also an attraction to the day LA crowd, panhandling for no less than $100 every two hours. But, no matter how legendary she became to the locals, her actual dream—her true calling—was still just out of reach. She loved performing, for anyone, anywhere, anytime,but she'd be lying if she said that she didn't measure her success by how many Grammys she had lining her mantel.

Mercedes' only full time job was auditioning. She'd stand in front of panel of—sometimes engaged, sometimes apathetic—judges at least ten times a month. It was a job that promised something big, a job that didn't pay. A job that made it hard for her to pitch in with the rent. When Puck noticed, he took it upon himself—and his high paying career as a poolside companion—to assume the responsibility. Mercedes felt guilty, she'd always feel guilty, but Puck waved it off. He had complete confidence that he was investing in her bright future.

Puck snatched up a large piece of pizza and folded it in half. Fixing a smug look on his features, he leaned back into the sofa, facing Mercedes. They sat on opposite sides of the sofa, furrowing their eyebrows at each other for a moment until Mercedes arched hers high up on her forehead.

"I'm not paying for everything." Puck rolled his eyes. "My Dad pays electricity."

Mercedes made a face, thinking back to the day when Puck's father—the man who was absent for the first 23 years of Puck's life—showed up at their apartment begging for a second chance to have a son. Puck had furrowed his eyebrows at Mr. Puckerman, blinked twice, then closed the door on him. The nonverbal, but still crystal clear, kiss-off didn't do much to deter Puck's father. Mr. Puckerman showed up at their apartment everyday after that.

He figured out his son's schedule and would 'randomly' bump into him at odd hours of the day. He'd send care packages filled with the really expensive beef, and when Mr. Puckerman found that none of that worked, he turned to Mercedes. One night, at a club where Mercedes was performing, Mr. Puckerman appeared with a hundred dollar bill in hand. He dropped it into Mercedes' tip jar, looked squarely into her eyes and said, "I want to talk to my son." Days later, Puck and his father had come up with an agreement. Puck would commit to dinner, once a week, if his father would donate—as Puck put it—money to help ease the cost of living and leave his best friend the hell alone.

"Oh yeah," Mercedes said, dropping a handful of pineapples onto the coffee table then taking a bite of her pizza, "I owe him too."

Puck frowned again, opening his mouth to reply but was cut off by Mercedes.

"And besides, you are much busier than I am Puck, what with your," she let a smile break out on her face, "booming pool cleaning business!"

She winked at him, "Next weekend is going to be your 1000th right? We need to celebrate!"

He smiled at her sheepishly before shrugging. "We don't need to do anything special, Cede. In fact this right here," he gestured to the room around him, "is celebration enough for me."

"Ah, no." Mercedes shook her head, "you have struggled for three years to make this work—not to mention the business classes you took, the ass kissing you had to do, those experimental scrubbing tablets that turned your hands blue for a week? You, my friend, deserve to party and I am going to make that happen."

Puck stood up, stretched, then bent over to clear the table. He balanced the unopened cans of soda on the top of the pizza box and took them into the kitchen. From a spot behind the kitchen counter he yelled, "seriously Mercedes, don't stress yourself out over me. I know you've got that audition coming up."

Mercedes stalled for a moment, "I can practice for an audition, work at a comic book store, and plan a party for you all at the same time and with a surprising amount of ease."

She stood up and followed him into the kitchen. "I am Wonder Woman y'know."

Puck cocked his head to the side, offering up a smile but refusing to meet Mercedes' eyes. He put the remaining slices of pizza in the oven, kicked the door shut with the heel of his foot and slipped past Mercedes back into the living room. Mercedes watched him go and let out a loud sigh. Propping her hands on her hip, she followed him, narrowing her eyes at his lounging form as it turned over to face away from her.

"Okay," she said lifting his legs from the sofa and sliding under them, "what's going on?"

When Puck didn't move, Mercedes shook her head. "Puuucck," she murmured, reaching forward to rub his back, "talk to me."

Mercedes watched him squirm then turn around so that he was laying stomach-up.

"It's nothing." He folded his arms over his chest.

"Spit it out, dude."

"It's just...I feel like working at that comics store isn't such a good idea."

Mercedes frowned. "Why?"

"You're working full time right? Well, isn't that going to take away from...performing?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at."

Puck sighed. "All right, I'm going to be upfront." He sat up, scooting closer to Mercedes. "This random job at that random comics store seems like it'll be more distracting than it's worth."

"Puck I told you the pay can only make things bett-"

Holding up a hand, Puck shook his head, "I'm not talking about the money."

Mercedes bobbed her head lower, her hair falling over her shoulders, and looked at Puck through her lashes.

"Look I get that you're all guilty and shit about rent but I think that you should just stay focused on your career. I mean some stuffy Asian dude liking your Wonder Woman costume is hardly something to be excited about."

"Uh...okay," Mercedes combed a hand through her hair as her eyebrows ran together, "it's clear that you weren't listening to me earlier because I never said it was about the costume. Mr. Chang saw potential in my ability to sell. Excuse me if I think that's exciting."

"But, it's just a comic book store, Cede. And it's just a hourly wage job, right? It's not like he actually hired you as the store's advertiser."

Mercedes craned her head back and tilted it to the side, "what is your deal?" She didn't know when her the sound of her voice raised a decibel or when she jumped up from her seat. "What's the problem with me working at Chemical X?"

"Because it's totally clear that you're using it as a crutch."

"...what?" Mercedes pinched the bridge of her nose, watching—in disbelief—as Puck got off the sofa and started pacing around her.

"I mean the job's cool and all but you need to focus on your singing career, you hardly talk about auditions any more and any time I try to bring it up you shrug it off!"

"I—I go to auditions all the time!"

Puck pursed his lips for a moment, "name the last time you went."

"Puck... for real?"

"Just do it."

Mercedes rolled her eyes, racking her brain for the last audition she had. She glanced at Puck while putting a hand to her forehead.

Puck shuffled towards her and put his hand over her shoulders, "Listen, I'm not trying to upset you. I'm just wondering if you're giving up—"

"No, you listen," Mercedes shrugged Puck off, tilting her head upwards to stare at him directly. "I can take care of myself Puck. I don't know what I did to make you think I couldn't, but I can."

Mercedes backed away as Puck reached a hand out to her. "I've got this," she motioned to herself, placing emphasis on her throat, "under control."

She rolled her eyes one more time before crossing into her own room, closing the door behind her. She glared at the door, her nose scrunching up, her lips pressed into a tight line then turned on heel and flopped down on her bed.

"What the fuck, Puck," she mumbled into her pillow. "way to ruin a perfectly good day."

Mercedes turned over onto her back, letting her arms spread out on her full sized bed and sighed. She had no idea what Puck was trying to get at. Singing was her passion, it'd always be her passion and just because she's interested in something other than singing shouldn't mean she's any less passionate. So what if she was excited about Mr. Chang's vague compliments about her selling know-how? So what if she spent the whole day thinking up strategies that could ensure more customers at Chemical X Comics? So what if she hadn't thought about the jingle audition—she killed herself to get—in three days?

Mercedes turned to her side. She was fine. Her career was fine. _Everything_ was—

Mercedes' skin prickled and her heart skipped a beat as her phone began to buzz.

She sat up, grabbed it from from her night stand and unlocked it, sandwiching it between her ear and shoulder.

"Hello?" Mercedes asked as a voice in the background began to mumble.

"It's so weird, Mike. Your Dad hasn't stepped foot inside the X for two years then all of a sudden he decides to drop by? I'm telling you something is fishy."

Mercedes recognized the voice. It belonged to the Chemical X blond who, after Mr. Chang departed from the store, kept complaining about his new changes.

"And it isn't fair. We've slaved over this place. One look at that...Wonder Woman and suddenly she's hired? I mean, what in the absolute hell? Don't you think he should've consulted us first? This girl could be a serial killer for Christ's sake." He paused for a split second then gasped, "she could _hate_ Avatar!"

Mercedes pursed her lips, she _did_ hate Avatar.

For a moment she contemplated getting the caller's attention, shouting into her phone to let him know that she was there but, that moment passed, swallowed up by curiosity.

"Just because she can dress up doesn't mean that she knows the first thing about advertising or sales. I swear, your Dad is messing with us."

Mercedes heard more mumbling in the background.

"Yeah, I get it, she was stealing our customers. That makes her more sneaky than savvy...fine she did have some decent ideas for the store but...what does it matter if she's good on guitar? Mike, listen to me, I—okay and her Wonder Woman costume was totally—"

Mercedes jumped up as a shrill popping sound broke through the phone, followed by a string of frantic cursing.

"What the fuck, Mike? You distracted me! I'm on the phone with her! No, look I've probably got her voicemail..."

Mercedes bit her bottom lip as she listened to the blond shuffle around.

"Holy shit, Mike. I think I've been on the phone with her—hold on—"

"Hello?"

Mercedes cleared her throat. "Hello?" Her voice was noticeably higher as she tried to feign innocence. She heard the blond mutter something under his breath.

"This isn't...Mer-Mercedes Jones is it?"

"Ah, that's me. Can I help you?"

He groaned. "Erm, this is—this is Sam. Sam...I am. Sam. Um. From Chemical X Comics...I don't know if you remember me..."

"Oh no, I remember. What is it that you want, Sam?"

"Uh, well." He cleared his throat, "I'm just calling to let you know that—if you can—you should come in tomorrow at 10. For an orientation."

Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay...and Mercedes?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Um, did you happen to catch the first...minute or so of this call?"

Mercedes waited a moment, feeling as though she could see Sam wincing.

"Every second of it."

The phone was silent for a while, then Sam cleared his throat.

"...okay."

And at that moment all Mercedes thought to do was laugh.

* * *

Mercedes was out of her apartment by eight thirty in the next morning. She didn't bother talking to Puck because she knew he had already left. The fight they had wasn't _that_ severe but Puck and Mercedes almost never fight. As Mercedes grabbed her blazer and smoothed the panels of her deep red, cotton skirt, she sighed. While she could understand his desire to put distance between the tension, she also didn't want them to go on ignoring each other. One of the main reasons that they managed to stay best friends for years was their inability to keep their feelings from one another. If Mercedes was upset, the first person to know would be Puck, and if Puck wasn't speaking to her...well then, she'd have no one else to talk to.

As she left the apartment, Mercedes made a mental note to apologize to him. Even though she knew that she wasn't wrong.

* * *

Sam watched as Mercedes walked up to Chemical X Comics from a spot behind the new editions section. She flicked her hair to the side, pulling out an iPod from her bag and twirled her thumb against the screen. His eyebrows furrowed together as he stared. She was dancing like no one was looking but, in reality, _they were_. Maybe it was the way she glided across the pavement, attempting to do the moonwalk. Maybe it was the way she abruptly stopped and snapped her fingers while rocking her hips back and forth. Maybe it was the fire engine red skirt that flared just above her knees and skimmed over the curve of her ass. Or maybe it was the jet black pumps.

Without realizing it, Sam gulped. Who dresses like that for orientation at a comic book store anyways?

Mercedes entered the store, a crisp _ding_ emanating through the door as she did, and walked to the counter.

"Hello?" She called out wrapping her headphones around her iPod and stuffing it back into her bag. "It's Mercedes? I'm here for the orientation."

Sam ducked lower and peered at her. He lifted his wrist in an attempt to look at his watch but stopped short, remembering that—at the wishes of Sandy—he didn't wear one. In Sandy's professional opinion, it covered up too much skin.

Standing up, and cursing Mike for choosing _this_ morning to have breakfast with his father, Sam walked towards Mercedes.

"Hey," he greeted forcing a smile onto his face, "how's...everything?"

Mercedes reluctantly smiled back. "Good, good. How's your...everything?"

"I ain't complainin', Amazon." Sam shuddered as both his Tennessee accent and his nickname for Mercedes slipped out.

Coughing loudly, he circled around Mercedes and pointed to the backroom. "Well, erm, if you head back here we can get your paperwork filled out."

Sam walked ahead, reaching the room first and looked over at Mercedes. "Mike's not in right now, but I'm sure we'll be good without him."

He leaned against the back room's door frame, watching as Mercedes walked past him. "Then after paperwork, I can teach you your first lesson."

At this Mercedes stilled. "Which is?"

Sam grinned, "how to work the register."

* * *

_Okay folks, we've got some wet forecasts for tonight. Make sure to bring your umbrellas around because we're expecting some rain showers. Great for the vegetation but terrible for my Gucci shoes..._

Mercedes sighed for the fifth time. She gently patted her cheeks in an attempt to keep herself awake as her line of focus drifted between the oily weatherman on the flat screen mounted behind the registers and Sam, who was waving a stack of receipts in her face.

"...and if they have a return, you'll have to enter your employee ID in and then the invoice number," he typed on the register's screen, "that should take you to the sale and from there all you've got to do is void out the transaction."

For the first time in an hour, Sam looked at her. "Have any questions?"

"Yeah," Mercedes replied behind a tight lipped smile, "when do I start implementing my ideas?"

Sam stiffened, "I'm sorry?"

"You know, the coffee machine and the comic book club? When do I get started with that?"

Opening the register and stuffing the receipts into it, Sam shrugged. "You know what, I'm not sure. Maybe when Mike gets back he can tell you about it."

Mercedes raised her eyebrows. "It's just—it's just that when _Mr. Chang hired me_ it was under the pretense that I'd be doing something different, something like working on the store's visibility, something that's... not this."

Sam scoffed. "You have to start from the beginning if you're gonna work at the X. And the beginning means... register duty."

Mercedes leaned forward, propping her elbow up against the counter and resting her chin on her upturned palm. "Okay but," she said, staring past Sam into the racks of comics that lined the store, "you've been teaching me about the registers for three hours. I think I'm ready to move on."

Cocking an eyebrow in her direction, Sam cleared his throat. "Fine," he paused as Mercedes turned to face him, "answer this question correctly and we can continue with something else."

Mercedes folded her arms over her chest. "Deal."

Sam licked his lips. "In what year," he said, sticking a finger in the air, "was this style of register first invented?"

Mercedes groaned. "Oh, hell no! Are you kidding me? How on Earth am I supposed to _know_ that?"

He shook his finger near her face and kissed his teeth. "Come on, Amazon. I went over that in _hour one_. You'll never get anywhere if you're not listening." Sam cupped his right hand around his ear and pointed at it with his left, wiggling his eyebrows at Mercedes. When she scowled at him, he bit back a laugh.

"Ugh, shut up Sam." She reached a hand out, smacked his shoulder and rolled her eyes when it didn't seem to have any affect. "And what is with that nickname...Amazon? Really?"

Sam squinted at her, "what? It's totally appropriate."

"..._how_?"

"You know Amazon...as in the Amazing Amazon?"

Mercedes shrugged her shoulders and Sam frowned.

"...the Amazon Princess?"

Sam recoiled when Mercedes shrugged again.

"...the Amazon Maiden? The Amazon Ace? The Mightiest Amazon of All?"

"Dude, you're just going to have to tell me what you mean. I'm not following at all and it seems like you are two seconds from losing it."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, bit his bottom lip and looked heavenwards. "You seriously don't know?"

Mercedes shook her head.

"The Mightiest Amazon of All as in...Wonder Woman? You were wearing her costume the other day!"

"Oh," Mercedes smacked her hand on her forehead, "Amazon is, like, her nickname or something?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "You need to do your research," he said, deadpanned. Without another word, he turned on heel and sprinted to the other side of the counter, looking back at Mercedes before disappearing between the racks.

"Oh my gosh." Mercedes laughed, pressing her small fist to her mouth to cover up the sound. "Sam...what're you doing?"

Sam appeared on the other side of the store, shuffling a small stack of comics between his arms. "Okay, I've got about a fourth of the issues in which Wonder Woman is referred to by a nickname," he said, his voice getting more frantic with each word. "I can let you borrow them to read and _educate yourself about the people you choose to dress up as_—"

"Sam—_Sam!_ I was kidding! Of course I know Wonder Woman!" Mercedes rolled her eyes then doubled over, laughing, at the flustered look Sam gave her. He walked back towards the counter and narrowed his eyes at her, slamming the stack of comics on the red table top.

Mercedes looked up at him. "You take your comics super seriously don't you?" She paused for a moment, "...are—are you mad?"

"I'm not mad," Sam replied a little too quickly. He sniffed, "ha ha. Good one."

Mercedes clapped her hands together. "Okay so, I was thinking that we could section off an area for the coffee machine and another for a lounge—that would double as the headquarters for the comic club. It may seem like the X doesn't have much space but if we move around some of those racks we could free up—"

"Whoa, whoa," Sam held his hands up, "we're not done with the register lesson."

Mercedes stepped back on her right leg and leaned into it, arching an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "Yes, we are."

"N-no we're not. You've still got a lot to learn."

Mercedes threw her hands up. "Like what? The name and address of the guy who carved that bolt?" She pointed at the register. "That's such a waste of time! Time that I could use to get some more customers in this ghost town!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Mike and I were doing just fine without you or the extra cut in pay you being here gives us."

"Look," Mercedes said through her clenched jaw, "I just want to help."

Sam squinted at her, opening his mouth to ask the question that'd been on the tip of his tongue since Mercedes first walked into the store, but stopped short when he heard a crisp _ding_ coming from the front door.

"Hey guys, how was this morning?" Mike walked in, carrying two brown paper bags. He smiled at Mercedes.

"I hope Sam hasn't been too much of a hassle."

Mercedes shook her head. "He's been great..."

Mike stopped in front of the counter and looked back and forth between the two of them, smiling widely. After a moment he clapped his hands together. "Well, Sam you should probably get going, you don't want to be late for that audition do you?"

Mercedes perked up, "audition?" She watched Sam walk past her, then looked at Mike. "He has an audition, for what?"

Mike shrugged, "some fitness brand wants to use his abs for a running gear spread."

"Why?"

"Um, because that's what models do?"

Mercedes made a face, "he's a model?" When she noticed Sam walk to the front door she redirected the question, "you're a model?"

Sam glanced back at her, "it's a part time job."

He exited the store, leaving Mercedes and Mike to look at each other.

"...he's a model?"

"Yeah, he's a model...and you're Wonder Woman if I remember correctly."

Mercedes rolled her eyes, "very funny, Mike." She straightened up as Mike pushed one of the brown bags towards her. "What's this?"

He pointed at one bag, "leftovers from the two hour breakfast I had with my Dad." He opened the bag, "some Belgian waffles, a few quiches, a whole bunch of kedgiree—whatever that is. And a canister of sparkling water."

Mike chuckled at Mercedes' confused face, "I thought we could have breakfast for lunch before getting down to the real work, I'm sure you didn't get past Sam's insane history lesson on registers."

"Oh my gosh, yes! He would not stop talking about them! He should just write the dissertation and get it over with."

"He's just really protective of the X is all." He held a takeout box out to Mercedes. "It's everything to him."

She sucked in her lips and took the box from him. "I'm just trying to help you know. I mean the X means a lot to me too. If it's gone where will I have my concerts?"

"Aha, good one!"

Mike went to the backroom and brought out two chairs, setting one down next to Mercedes.

Mercedes took an exaggerated step back and let out a low whistle. "Oh wow, you're really pulling out all the stops!"

Mike chewed on his bottom lip as his cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. "Only the best for the Amazon Princess."

Mercedes smiled, "good one."

* * *

It was past eight PM when Sam returned to Chemical X. He dragged his feet as he entered, throwing a quick nod to Mercedes who was crouched in the corner behind a large cardboard box of receipt paper. She gave him a tight lipped smile—the only kind he'd gotten from her all day—and turned back to the box.

Sam walked by her, sighing as he got to the break room and dropped his bag. He spotted Mike hanging up on a call as he entered and bounced on the heels of his feet, impatiently waiting for his attention.

"...yes, Dad, I get it...no we didn't get too many customers today but it's fine because we've got a plan. Yes, Dad...yes, Dad...okay, see you in a bit, bye."

Mike brought his phone done, looked at if for a moment, then swiped the screen against his pant leg.

Sam frowned, "what do you mean, see you in a bit?"

Mike turned to look at him, "oh hey. So how was it? Did you get the gig?"

"Nope." Sam shook his head, "I stood in a line for a good four hours just to audition."

He pulled out a chair and flopped down. "I've made it through the first audition but only by the skin of my teeth. Apparently, I don't _look_ like a fitness model."

"What? Impossible!"

"Oh no, it's possible. To these people 5% body fat is too much body fat." He paused. "When—if I get the callback I'll have to be stronger. I've got to find something that'll set me apart from the _actual _fitness models."

Sam grabbed his bag and wrapped his arms around it. "Do you know how much this ad pays? Over six grand—with the possibility of a recurring campaign."

Mike frowned. "And that means?"

"That means if I get it, my money problems will go away...at least for a few more months."

Mike made his way to the door, "I know you'll get it dude. After me, you've got one of the best bodies in all of LA."

Sam followed him, "HA! Have a stand up special Mike, you're so funny."

Sam watched as Mike crossed the store and made his way to Mercedes.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said from just in front of the break room entrance, "what did you mean when you said 'see you in a bit,' Mike?"

Mike distractedly looked at Sam. "Oh, I've got to head out early tonight. Dinner with the family."

He looked at Sam and Mercedes apologetically. "I won't be here to close. So...I was thinking that you'd help Mercedes close up shop, Sam. Teach her the whole process."

Sam visibly sagged, "are you sure that's a good idea?"

Mercedes clicked her tongue, "what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing!" Sam held his hands up in surrender, "nothing."

She didn't even bother hiding the eye-roll and Sam didn't bother to muffle his groan.

Mike looked between the two of them, then lifted the box of unopened receipt paper over his shoulders.

"This is fun isn't it?" He asked, leaving Sam and Mercedes to look at each other, not even bothering to answer his question.

* * *

"All right. I guess I'll...see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow."

Sam looked down on Mercedes, clad in only a sleeveless, white shirt; red skirt; black blazer, and sighed.

"Um, Mercedes," he called out to her receding form.

She turned to look at him, "what?"

"Mercedes where d'you live?"

She frowned, "why?"

He bit his bottom lip, "because it's dark out, it's almost midnight and you're wearing...I want to walk you home."

Mercedes waved him off, "oh no that's fine." She nodded her head, then turned back around and started walking away.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Sure there were lampposts dotting the streets in a strained yellow light, but it was after midnight and it was still dark. He rolled his eyes up to the sky, stuffed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and chased after her.

"Mercedes!" He saddled up next to her, following as she unintentionally lead him closer to her apartment, "let me walk you home, I insist."

Mercedes scowled at him, "why?"

"It's LA and it's dark out."

"So?"

"So let me walk you home."

"I think I'll be fine."

"Look, I'd be more comfortable if you let me do this."

"...why?"

"Mercedes, be reasonable. If something were to happen to you—"

"Sam, we're not even friends and you can barely stand me. So I'm pretty sure if something happened to me, you'd pull through."

Sam winced, "Mercedes why would you say tha—"

CRRRAAACCK.

A loud noise, like the sound of bricks being thrown against a wall, pierced though the night sky. A low, continuous rumble of earth followed it. Mercedes stopped so suddenly that Sam had to skirt around her to avoid crashing into her backside.

"What was that?" She asked.

"What?"

CRRRAAACCCK.

Mercedes lifted a finger. "That."

Sam and Mercedes stood on an empty sidewalk, surrounded by dark boutiques and shops. They had been walking for sometime, arguing all the while, and didn't notice how far they'd gotten from Chemical X.

Sam looked up at a black and cloudy sky, feeling the heat radiate from Mercedes as she stepped closer to him.

"It's fine, it's just thunder and a little rain. I think the weatherman said we'd get a storm tonight..."

Sam ushered a hesitant Mercedes forward, rolling his eyes at how quiet she'd gotten.

"Are you afraid of thunder or something?"

"What? No! I'm 23 years old, Sam. That's ridiculous."

She started to roll her eyes back at him but stopped midway and tensed as the night sky lit up for a second, a screeching crack breaking through the darkness. A small gust of wind sailed past them and the sky lit up for a second time. Sam took the opportunity to look down at Mercedes who, unconsciously or not, was now clutching the sleeve of his hoodie in her fist.

"Mercedes? Mercedes, I think we should go." Sam placed a hand on top of the one that held onto him and tugged slightly, breaking Mercedes out of a daze and coaxing her to move with him, against the direction of the wind and under the constant crackling in the sky.

They made their way across the desolate sidewalk, as the wind picked up speed. It got faster and faster, close to bending the streetlamps to its will and causing Sam to bring his arm up and shield himself against the swift licks of air that cut across the skin on his face and left his cheeks raw. Instinctively, Mercedes inched even closer to him, using his body as a shield.

"We need to find somewhere to hide and wait out the storm!" She screamed, surprised at how quick the wind knocked the air out of her.

Sam turned slightly to face her and grabbed her wrist. "WHAT?" He leaned in, his face scrunched up in an attempt to keep his contact with the harsh wind to a minimum.

Mercedes took a deep breath, "WE NEED TO FIND A PLACE TO—whoa."

In a split second the wind and thunder stopped. The streetlamps righted themselves, a few flickering on and off for a moment. Mercedes and Sam stood face to face in front a closed bakery with an awning that was bent upwards.

"What was that?" Mercedes looked up at Sam.

"No clue but..." Sam replied, moving forward. "_Was that it?_"

"Sam," Mercedes said, glaring at him, "don't jinx it—"

CRRRAAACCK.

Before Mercedes could blame Sam, before she could even _blink_. A sickly, scraggly, yellow line of lightening shot through the sky. The wind picked up again, getting more aggressive than before, swirling through the air. The clouds above them turned a luminescent blue.

"Mercedes let's go!" He yelled and tightened the grip on her wrist, pulling her forward as he ran down the street.

A slew of curses entered his mind and left his mouth as looked left and right, searching—in vain—for a place where they could hide. He skidded to a halt at a four-way crossing, looked left and right, then back at Mercedes.

"Which way?"

Mercedes looked back at him, her eyes wide and gulped. "Um...uh..." she mimicked his movements, looking left and then right. She did a double take in the right direction, momentarily forgetting the shitstorm brewing around them, and stepped forward. With her back turned, pointed down the street.

"I think there's a late night bar down this way," she said slowly turning, "it's a one drink minimum but I think I can convince the owner to—Sam!"

Mercedes let out a shrill, earth-shattering scream and Sam spun around on heel just in time to sidestep a platinum silver Volkswagen whizz past him. The car slid into a stop sign and flipped over, turning on its hood for a moment. Then, as another bolt of lightening pierced the sky, it lifted off the ground, carried by the gust of wind that brought it back to Sam and Mercedes' direction.

"What the hell?" Sam yelled. "Mercedes, what about that bar?" He pulled Mercedes under the bakery's awning, pressing her flat against the store's window.

"We can't stay out here, we could die out here tonight."

Mercedes nodded, shakily. "It's only, ten minutes away."

Sam offered up a smile, "let's go."

Mercedes wriggled free from the hand Sam had around her wrist and curled her fingers around his. She struggled against the wind, but managed to lead him across the street.

CRRRAAAACCK.

The sky was an ominous shade of royal blue. Specks of faded golden light littered the space, illuminating the air around Sam and Mercedes in a translucent sea blue. The wind had let up, but the lightening didn't—as if on cue, it struck every thirty seconds, a spiny bolt streaking though the sky. As the window to a shoe store shattered, Mercedes bit down on her bottom lip and willed herself not to scream. They turned the corner and jumped back, a stop sign soaring past them and breaking in half.

"CHRIST!" Sam yelled. "How far?"

Not trusting her voice, Mercedes pointed. The bar was just up the street now, it's neon green sign rattling in the wind but not breaking. Sam sped up, running ahead of Mercedes and pulling her along. They didn't bother to stop, _didn't bother to slow down_ until the weather-proof double doors of the bar locked behind them.

* * *

**A/N: First off, a million apologies for the extremely late update. I've had a few issues that include, but are not limited to: extra shifts at work to pay for Cotton Club Parade tickets, a missing laptop charger, Glee BS, TGP BS, insanely cheap hotel soap and a full body rash. Hopefully, I'll be able to pick up the pace tonight to get you guys the next chapter. Speaking of pace, how are we liking mine? Do you think the story is going too slow? Should I expedite Mercedes and Sam's superhero process? Or are we okay with how it is? Also, what do you guys think about chapter length? I know that 1,000 is a little scarce and 6,000 is a little much. What would be a happy medium for y'all? Am I explaining everything to your liking? Or am I giving to much detail, or too little detail? I honestly want to know. Please leave a comment if you have any opinions on things I could improve on.**

**As always please excuse any grammatical errors and typos that I (most certainly) missed. Thank you for the review!**

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of it's characters.


	4. Disorientating

**It's been a while, hasn't it? I had to rewrite these next two chapters five times. Please excuse all the mistakes I may have missed**.

* * *

It was taking Mercedes all she had to keep from throttling Sam in the middle of an empty karaoke-n-beer bar, during a freak thunder storm, in downtown LA. Mercedes felt like she was being tested, like she was one short answer from failing out of not murdering your employer...university.

Every time that she heard Sam breathe, the hair on the back of her neck would stand on end and goosebumps would erupt over her arms. Mercedes took that to mean one thing—that his very existence was bugging her. She didn't blame herself, she _wouldn't_ blame herself for being wary of a guy who she knew didn't like her. And for no real reason to boot.

What's more was the fact that Sam not liking her _did_ bug her. A lot. Mercedes had already done the mandatory soul searching when she moved from her small Ohio town to Los Angeles at 19. She made it a point of duty to leave of all her self-conscious habits back in high school. She _did not_ appreciate the fact that around Sam, she was suddenly back to second guessing almost every decision she made.

Then there were the questions. Sam spent the first 20 minutes inside the bar, roaming around, running his hands along the velvet walls, diving over the drinks counter, and generally being restless. So when he threw a question Mercedes' way, she could feign ignorance and dismiss it. But when Sam got tired of throwing himself around the establishment, he went over to where Mercedes was, and pulled out a high chair. At less than five feet away, Mercedes couldn't exactly get away with pretending that he (and his incessant questioning) wasn't there.

Sam would drop the same three-set every few minutes. He followed it up with a sigh and, if Mercedes was interested enough to shoot him a look, he'd finish off with a pout. Mercedes pressed the pads of her thumbs to her temples, waiting.

"You think that storm's over?" Sam asked, for—by Mercedes' calculation—the one millionth time.

Mercedes sniffed."I don't know."

"You think it'll be over soon?"

"I don't know."

"You think the owner is coming back?"

Mercedes cleared her throat. "I don't know."

Sam sighed remembering the owner—a small Asian woman with blonde highlights and a fierce attitude—who, initially, had abandoned them at the front of her bar.

The owner had been so blatantly unwilling to let them in while she was busy closing up shop that it made Sam's head spin. Immediately after Sam and Mercedes shoved their way through the front door, she sequestered them in the bar's waiting room. They were forced to listen to a thunderous roar and shrink back from the rattling front doors for a full thirty minutes until Mercedes instructed Sam to force the door to the _actual_bar open. When he did (and after the owner threatened to call the cops), Mercedes promised three one-hour sets for the bar's open mic nights, for _free_. As if the woman hadn't laughed in their faces minutes before, the owner opened the doors wide, welcoming a frazzled Sam and a frenzied Mercedes in and "away from the bitter LA air."

After drafting a list of songs she'd love Mercedes to sing (she made sure to reinforce that the sets were to be performed without any money exchanging hands) the owner, slipped off to the backroom claiming that she had some paperwork to do. She smiled at them as she disappeared from view and said that she'd be back in five.

That was over an hour ago.

"Why would she just leave like that?" Sam attempted to get comfortable on a makeshift, three chair bed.

Mercedes didn't bother lifting her head up to look at him. "I don't know."

"I mean, it's not like she's got anywhere to go at...2 AM in the morning."

"I don't get it either."

"Is she trying to lock us up in here?"

"We can leave anytime we want."

"But, doesn't it seem...right."

"Look, can we talk about..._anything _else? She's busy. We're in her way, and I'm getting a headache." Mercedes lifted her head, resting her chin on her arm, and looked at Sam.

Sam looked back at her. He couldn't help it if he was antsy. He had too much to think about: the NexTech callbacks right around the corner,the fact that the X had been steadily loosing money for the past two months, his inability to send money back home and his self-imposed mission to find out the real reason why Mr. Chang Sr hired Mercedes.

Not to mention, Sam had never been a fan of waiting or sitting still so having to do both, _at the same time_ was really taking a toll on his sanity.

"Listen, Sam." Mercedes broke through his thoughts with a wave of her hand. "I don't want to be here with you as much as you don't want to be here with me." She scowled at the innocent look Sam gave her. "—oh don't you look at me like that—so if you can think of anything we can do to make the time go faster...I'd really appreciate it."

Sam raised an eyebrow at Mercedes, a thoughtful expression on his face, and made a stroking motion on his chin.

"Well..." He said, kicking his legs up onto the table between them, "you could always...sing for me."

Mercedes winced. "No."

"What?"

"No."

"Amazon I—"

"No."

"Listen it's a good—"

"No."

Sam raised his hands up in surrender, "Will you just hold on a moment?"

Mercedes furrowed her eyebrows.

"You've already promised the owner _three hours_ of material, you could totally use this time to practice. The storm's not going anywhere," he looked around, "if it hasn't gone somewhere already." Sam gave Mercedes a meaningful glance, lifting up the palms of his hands and shrugging at her. Mercedes sniffed.

"Hell to the no."

"But why?"

"Because I'm not a jukebox, I'm not here for your entertainment, or to be made fun of—"

"Whoa, who said anything about making fun?" Sam asked, slightly offended. "Is that what you think of me?"

"What else am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm a nice guy."

Mercedes squinted at him, "...why?"

"What d'you mean, _why_?"

Leaning in, and propping her chin up with her fist, Mercedes looked Sam up and down. Why was he doing this? What's the ulterior motive? At that particular moment, Mercedes couldn't find it but she knew that, with Sam, it had to be there. Because the alternate option was unfathomable of a guy who didn't even like her.

"Anyways," she fell back against her chair, "if you want to hear some music, make it yourself."

"But Amazon..."

"No buts."

"If we have to be trapped in here—"

"We don't have to be trapped in here—"

"There's a freak storm going on outside now—"

"Sam. If you wanna know what's going on, you could just peek outside and check."

"Or _you_ could just peek outside and check."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"I _don't_ take requests," Mercedes said, pushing back on her chair and turning towards the stage. While walking away she heard Sam call out to her.

"Hey Amazon, I know you don't _usually_ take requests," he smirked. "But if you could take one from your boss...nothing too risque, alright?"

Mercedes squinted at Sam and pulled her lips down into a frown.

"Like I would ever for an audience of just _you_."

She would've just walked off right then and there except... she _actually_ was itching to get up on the stage as soon as she saw it. When they first entered the bar, she found herself drawn to the singular light that bathed a lone mic stand in red district purple. She was impressed by the guitar that stood on the edge of stage right against a kickstand. She _liked_the way an ocean of high tables and floorspace erupted from the center-most part of the stage.

It dawned on her that she hadn't felt—excited, jittery, the good kind of nervous—_that way_in quite sometime.

The seats fanned outwards and back, sitting densely together in the front, sparsely in the rear and Mercedes closed her eyes, pretending that all the empty space in the bar was filled—first inch to last—with people who came to hear her sing. She blotted out Sam with the palm of her hand and imagined that a glare came from fictional second balcony floodlights. Mercedes didn't allow Sam's lopsided smile break through her daydream. Instead she began to lightly knock on the wood of the guitar, her head nodding to the beat, her frustrations towards Sam—and circumstances in general—taking on a mind of it's own as she trilled about.

_La da da da da, I'm gonna bury you in the ground_

_La da da da da, I'm gonna bury you with my sound_

_I'm gonna drink the red from your pretty pink face_

_I'm gonna—_

Whatever emotion that had convinced Mercedes to get up on stage in an empty bar on a Wednesday at two hours past midnight and..._sing_, began to drain out of her body the moment she saw Sam looking at her, his eyes weary.

"_What?_" She over-enunciated the word, but thought better of matching it with an eye-roll.

He stared at her. "It's just... if you can sing like _that_ why are you even bothering with Chemical X?"

"I'm sorry?" Mercedes cocked her head to the side and blinked at Sam.

"I mean you should probably focus on singing, something you know you're actually good at." He shook his head at her. "It would definitely make my life easier," he added.

Mercedes hit a raw chord with her fingernails as she stopped abruptly to glare at Sam.

He raised his eyebrows at her, "what?"

"Nobody asked you, Sam."

"Relax, I was just saying that—"

"Nobody. Asked. _You_. Got it?"

Mercedes didn't want to admit that Sam's simple statement made her blood boil.

It was harmless, it should have meant less than nothing coming from a guy who couldn't even turn a profit in his own business. From the mouth of a guy who can't even remember to wear a watch, from a guy like Sam. And yet Mercedes was ready to punch herself in the face once she realized which emotions were coursing through her vein. Yes, there was anger, there was rage but above all—the one that things that made Mercedes the most upset—was hurt. Sam had actually managed to hurt... her feelings.

Taking a breath through her nose, Mercedes fanned herself with her left hand and closed her eyes. Adding Sam to the list of people who thought ill of her new gig as a professional comic book nerd was easy—_there was only one other person on it._ But Sam thinking that she wasn't even halfway decent at her job shouldn't mean anything to her. In the days that they had to work together he barely gave her a chance. Mike still believed in her and Mr. Chang Sr, well he was the one who hired her so he must've seen something promising...

Mercedes bit down on her bottom lip. If there was anything that could calm her now, it was the guitar in her hands. She strummed, cutting her eyes in Sam's direction.

_Sorry I won't treat you like a goddess_

_Is that what you want me to do?_

_Sorry I won't treat you like you're perfect_

_Like all your little loyal subjects do_

_Sorry I'm not made of sugar_

_Am I not sweet enough for you?_

_Is that why you always ignore me, _

_It must be such an inconvenience to you_

_Well, I'm just your problem_

_I'm just your problem_

_It's like I'm not, even a person, am I?_

_I'm just your problem. _

Sam leaned forward, folding his hands together as he watched Mercedes play. Anger oozed from the stage as she sung, curling down to the floor save an iota that settled just above Mercedes' eyebrows. Her hips swayed back and forth, her eyes squeezed shut, she leaned backward and took in a deep breath. Sam couldn't help but take notice. As soon as she started to sing, her whole demeanor changed. Her head was held higher, her body more fluid, but her stance rock solid. He couldn't honestly say that it was his style but, it _was _an entirely different performance from the theme songs she sang in front of the X.

_Well, I-I-I-I-I-I-I shouldn't have to justify what I do  
I-I-I-I-I-I-I shouldn't have to prove anything to you  
I'm sorry that I exist.  
I forget what landed me on your blacklist, _

_But I-I-I-I-I-I-I shouldn't have to be the one that impresses you,  
So... why do I want to?  
Why do I want to.. _

_To...to..._

"Ugh!"

Mercedes jumped back from the microphone, clumsily setting the guitar on its kickstand, and rushed off stage.

"You okay? What happened?" Sam was up out of his chair before he could realize it. He had the good sense to regret his concern when Mercedes shrugged and walked past him.

"I...just...nothing happened."

Sam returned to his seat. He was too exhausted to push it.

The two of them sat together at that high table, not speaking to each other—not looking at each other—for what seemed like forever. Mercedes had her head down, forehead pressed against the polished wood, while Sam sat, his legs propped up on two chairs that he brought together.

Mercedes wasn't afraid to admit to herself that her impromptu set practice was her way of venting. It was one of the things she cherished the most about music. It's unique ability to allow her to release stress and emotion that otherwise she'd have pent up inside was one of the many perks to singing. Like usual, while she was on stage, her emotions took over and she sang about the thing that was bothering her the most.

Mercedes glanced over at Sam who leaned back in his chair while raising a hand to pick at his fingernails. She didn't think that she had ever met anyone that dense. However, if he had actually paid attention to her song, they'd probably be fighting. So, against her better judgment, Mercedes decided to call his blockhead tendencies a blessing.

But, the part that confused Mercedes the most, the part that made her stop and rush off stage, was something she wasn't ready to think about. Because somewhere between the first verse and the next, the song stopped being about Sam. Yes, there was a part of her that wanted to impress her Chemical X bosses and yes it was a burdensome task but that wasn't what she was thinking about when she sang the final lines.

"So..." Sam cleared his throat, waiting until he had Mercedes' attention to continue, "you think the storm's—"

"We are _not_ doing that again."

"What?"

Mercedes rolled her eyes. "What d'you mean what?" She asked, trying her best to mimic Sam.

He sneered at her. "That...was terrible. And I should know, I'm the absolute king at impressions." Sam paused, "wanna hear some?"

"Not particularly." Mercedes replied with a smile. But it was too late, Sam was off, starting with his complete set of 1985 Academy Award Winner's speeches, accompanied by a near perfect physical reenactment. Between each impression he'd glance over at Mercedes with a devious smirk. Almost as if he knew she was close to clawing her brains out.

She stared at him as he launched into an impassioned portrayal of Sally Field's best actress speech (footnoting it to include the fact that most times her speech is misquoted) and thought that if she had to sit through any more of Sam Evans she'd go stir-crazy.

In fact, she thought furrowing her eyebrows as Sam proceeded to segue into the next category, all of the crap she had to deal with in the past four hours was _his_ fault to begin with! The only reason they got caught in the storm in the first place was because Sam had them working too late—reorganizing a tub full of complementary bookmarks. The only reason they were "trapped" inside the bar—the only reason Mercedes now had three hours of stage time to fill was because Sam suggested they hide out there. The _only_ reason Mercedes had to waste precious sleeping with the most annoying person she's ever met—a person who didn't like her, didn't respect her work, was willing to do pretty much anything to get her out of his hair—was because...He. Forced. Her. To.

Suddenly everything was clear. It was as if a light bulb had gone off in Mercedes' head. She pushed off the high table, swinging her feet to the ground as she backed away from Sam. In a moment he noticed what she was doing and looked at her.

"_What?_" Sam asked.

Mercedes blinked, looking at him like he was a stranger, then stopped.

"I...don't have to stay here for this do I?" Mercedes paused for a moment, her hands raised, but didn't give Sam a chance to speak. "Right...I'm leaving."

Sam watched as Mercedes turned away from him, walking as fast as she could, to the exit. It was only when she cracked the front doors open, poked her head through, then disappeared behind them entirely, did Sam realize that she was serious.

"Oh come on! You _can't_ be serious, Amazon. It's _dangerous_ out there!" Sam yelled after her, rolling his eyes and reluctantly rising from his seat.

He followed Mercedes into the streets, pausing to allow his eyesight to adjust to the blue-black sky as he scanned the area. A gentle wind picked up and ruffled Sam's hair, alerting him to just how chilly it was. He lifted the hood of his hoodie over his head and pulled its drawstrings closed. Sam couldn't even imagine how Mercedes was fairing.

At least the storm that forced them to hide out in the bar in the first place was over.

Sam took a few steps forward, careful to side-step the remnants of a stop sign that lay bent down the middle on the sidewalk. The streets were littered with garbage: newspapers, take out cartons, broken beer bottles, the contents of which were seeping into the sidewalk's concrete. Sam was surprised that he could distinguish all of the litter considering that every streetlamp he saw was either broken, or inexplicably off. He looked up.

He supposed that the only thing lighting his way was the full moon. But..Sam furrowed his eyebrows, a full moon wasn't expected in LA for another three days wasn't it? He knew that his knowledge of astronomy was a little rusty—the last time he charted the stars was back in high school—but something as simple as the moon's phases he had a pretty good understand of. Something about the way the moon beamed down at him, the light it was giving of had a deep blue tint to it, was...unusual.

Sam shook his head, he had something to do. He didn't know if he'd be able to live with himself if something happened to Mercedes while he was moon-gazing. He walked forward, crossing the street at an intersection and continued on. He had no idea where Mercedes had gotten to, and in such a short amount of time. Maybe he had gone the wrong direction. Which way was Mercedes' apartment anyways?

After a few more moments, Sam was ready to admit that he had gone the wrong way when he heard someone grunting to his left. He looked over, his nerves shot to pieces, to see Mercedes bent over fussing with her shoes. She stood straighter and smoothed her hands over the front of her skirt, looking up at the moon then turning around. It was almost like she knew he was there and, when she saw him, she slapped a hand to her forehead, spinning on her heels as fast as possible.

Clicking his tongue when he spotted Mercedes trying to run away again, Sam lurched forward, jogging to catch up. When he did, grabbed her by the elbow.

"What the hell is your problem?" He asked bending lower to catch his breath.

Mercedes wrenched free from his grasp and cocked an eyebrow at him, "my problem?"

"Yes. Your problem," Sam sneered, "why are you so...unpleasant?"

Mercedes reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, "what?"

"You always act like it's some kind of burden to be around me. You're always so put out to _even look_at me. What the hell did I do?"

"_Me_ burdened by spending time with_you_? This coming from the guy who practically begged Mr. Chang, Sr to fire me from the X after knowing me for all of...three minutes."

"Oh come on, you can't honestly believe—"

"What am I supposed to believe?" Mercedes threw her hands up.

"You know, when you're not forcing me to let you walk me home, you're trash talking me to Mike! When you're not insisting that I learn the origin of every _fucking_piece of useless equipment at the X, you're avoiding working with me at all costs. When you're not sidestepping _any_mention of _any_of the ideas I've had _ever_, you're giving me backhanded compliments about my singing. It's so obvious that _you don't like me _so why are we even bothering? I've had it up to here with trying to get on your good side. That's it. I don't care anymore."

Mercedes stood on the curb of the sidewalk, fuming. She stared at Sam for a split second longer than she intended to, flicked her hair to the side with the back of her hand and stormed off.

Originally, Sam had been content to let her walk off, but that stare, the one that warned him to stay away, the one that dared him to push the issue further, pulled him. He ground his teeth together and walked after Mercedes, letting out a loud and dry laugh.

"Wait. You've been trying to get on my _good_side? You mean to tell me," he started, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "that that, back there, was you being _charming_?"

He laughed again, this time genuinely amused at the sight of Mercedes speeding up—thinking her legs could take her farther and faster than his could, "well I hate to break it to you, Amazon but if that was your attempt at being nice, then I've lost all hope for humanity."

Mercedes whipped around on her heels so quickly that Sam—who by this point had completely caught up—almost walked into her. He sidestepped Mercedes' short frame, instinctively bringing his hands up to brace himself against Mercedes' shoulders. When he saw her recoil away from him, he scoffed. Sam took a deep breath, ready to address his list of grievances but stopped short when he saw Mercedes' left hand on her hip, her right in the air, her pointer finger wagging in front of him.

"What _is _your problem?"

The question that came from her was simple, in certain contexts it was guaranteed to sound innocent, but all Sam could see was a girl who clearly thought he was such a non-issue that it made his muscles tense and head throb. Before he had a chance to second guess himself,he was off, words tumbling out of his mouth faster—and angrier—than he intended.

"You wanna know what my problem is? It's you, your entire existence here! Like, what gives you the right to just show up at the X and get a job? We weren't even hiring! And Mr. Chang hasn't ever come to the store—I mean never, ever—but when he finally does the only thing he can think to do is hire you, a girl who he doesn't even know who could easily run the whole company into the ground? Who does that? And you! You say you're being friendly but in reality, you're cool to everyone _but_me. You're even close with the fed ex guy who types up all of his memos in fucking comic sans!And why the hell is it that everything _I've_ done with Chemical X is something you want to change? You wanna rearrange the shelves, you wanna direct the comic book club—which I already thought before you even got here...and FYI, Chemical X is not, nor will it ever be, a fucking coffee shop. I mean, talk about being obvious Amazon! You hate everything I do to _my own damn store._And I'm sure that has everything do with how stupid you think I am!"

Mercedes cocked her head to the side. Sam folded his arms over his chest, bracing himself against what she would say next.

Mercedes furrowed her eyebrows, and bit down on her bottom lip for a moment.

"_Are you ill?_"

She stepped closer to him and jabbed her pointer finger at his chest. "What in the world are you saying? I never said anything about thinking you're stupid, quit putting words in my mouth! And for the record, _you're_the one who's nice to everyone but—"

When Mercedes cut herself off to look past Sam, he frowned. He didn't appreciate being ignored and there was no way he was going to let Mercedes get away with having the last word. He pushed himself forward, intending to invade her personal space but was shocked when he found the palm of her hand pressed against his chest. She pushed off of him, causing Sam to stagger backwards as she side-stepped him.

"Amazon, what the—"

"HEY!" Mercedes leaned forward, bracing herself against the ground and screamed as loudly as she could.

With eyes wide, Sam jumped towards her, aiming to grab her elbow again, "what is wrong with you?" He tried to spin Mercedes around to face him but she wouldn't budge. Instead she twisted her arm out of his grasp and pointed down the street.

Sam squinted into the darkness. A few blocks away, he saw what he assumed to be a small woman—she was swathed head to toe in a murky colored scarf, wearing flat sandals, the only indication to her gender was the purse she currently trying to protect—backing away from two larger men. The two men closed the gap between the themselves and woman. They grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her around the corner and out of sight.

"Oh shit," Sam ran a hand through his hair, "Amazon, stay here and call the cops, I'll—Amazon?"

Sam looked around to find himself standing alone. "Amazon?" He stepped forward and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from a nearby lamppost that flickered on.

When he saw Mercedes, sprinting away from him, towards the direction he gesturing towards, he slapped his hand to his forehead.

"Seriously?" he yelled, chasing after her, "Amazon—ah—it's too _dangerous_!" He sucked his teeth and picked up speed, after noticing that she was no longer paying any attention to him at all.

"She's so fucking difficult."

* * *

**The song is "I'm Just Your Problem" sung by Marceline the Vampire Queen on Adventure Time (what can I say, Mercedes is a nerd).**

**And yes this is still the same night as last chapter. I'm extremely long-winded. But I have it on good authority that Mercedes and Sam will be getting their powers next chapter, although it might not happen the way you expect it to.**

**Reviews are great, I'm particularly looking to see if my setting description is up to par. Next time I'll tell you why in the heck it took me so long to update. It's actually a funny story (no it's not -.-)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**


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